Deaf Sentence - By David Lodge Page 0,76

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‘Yes,’ I interposed. ‘You asked me afterwards who she was and I had no idea because I hadn’t heard a thing she said.’ I smiled ruefully to show this was a joke against myself. ‘But we met subsequently in quieter circumstances.’

‘Desmond is hard of hearing,’ Fred explained.

‘Oh dear,’ Alex said sympathetically. ‘How do you manage in the theatre? It must be difficult.’

‘It is. But I use this thing,’ I said, taking the wishbone-shaped headset out of my jacket pocket and brandishing it in the air. ‘I’ve discovered the optimum place to sit in this auditorium for using it. And I do know this play pretty well.’

‘So do I, I love it,’ Alex said.

‘What do you think of the Peter Pan?’ Fred asked her.

‘I think he’s brilliant. Such a bold bit of casting. It gives a whole new dimension to his outsider-character.’

How did she know that was the right answer to impress Fred? Or was she quite sincere? With Alex, how could one possibly know? The roar of conversation in the foyer had now reached a decibel level that ruled out any further part in the conversation for me, but I could see the two women were getting on well together. When the bell rang for us to return to our seats, Fred shook Alex’s hand again and I heard her say: ‘Drop in any time, we’re open from nine-thirty to six, seven on Thursdays.’

‘Thanks so much, I will,’ Alex said, with her most winsome smile.

‘What a nice young woman,’ Fred said, as we made our way back to our seats in the front stalls. ‘I told her about Décor, and she was very interested. She needs some curtains for her flat.’

‘She couldn’t possibly afford anything in your shop,’ I said, irritably and injudiciously.

‘How would you know?’ Fred retorted, but without any tone of suspicion. ‘She may have rich American parents.’

I was going to say that Alex was paying her own fees, but decided not to reveal this much knowledge of her circumstances.

‘You told me about her PhD topic, but I forget what it was,’ Fred said as we took our seats. ‘Something rather odd . . .’

‘A stylistic study of suicide notes.’

‘That’s right. What a depressing subject to choose. You would never have guessed to look at her. Do you think she has a personal interest in it?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, as the lights went down for the second half. ‘I don’t know much about her.’

I paid little attention to the rest of the play because I was thinking about the implications of this meeting. I was relieved to have established in Fred’s mind the idea of an entirely innocent acquaintance between myself and Alex. On the other hand the likelihood of their getting together again, without me, is full of alarming possibilities.

Dad has been on the phone a lot lately, asking about what Christmas presents to get for members of the family. I try to persuade him that nobody expects him to give presents, but he brushes this suggestion aside, claiming that he would feel embarrassed if people gave him presents and he didn’t give them any in return. It’s a reasonable point and highlights the unreasonableness of the whole present-giving ritual. I try to suggest some cheap, simple token presents for him to give, but he forgets what they were and rings me up to ask again. In the end I say with some exasperation, why don’t you give everybody the same thing - a small box of After Eights, say? ‘Don’t be daft,’ he says. ‘Imagine everybody opening my presents and finding the same thing inside. I’d be a laughing stock.’ ‘Well, buy them all different kinds of chocolates, then.’ To my relief he accepts this suggestion. ‘But not for Daniel and Lena,’ I remember to add.‘Marcia doesn’t like them eating sweets.’ ‘Who are they?’ he asks. ‘Marcia is Fred’s daughter. Daniel and Lena are her children.’ ‘Gawd,’ he said, ‘I hadn’t reckoned with them. I’d better write down their names.’ ‘No, no, don’t bother! You don’t have to give them anything,’ I say, but it is too late. ‘What about you, son? I can’t give you a box of After Eights.’ ‘Of course you can,’ I say. ‘I love them. I can’t get enough of them. When we have any, Fred eats them all.’ This of course is a total fiction, but it does the trick.

We discuss the logistics of his visit. I will drive down to London on the day before Christmas Eve to

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